


Two (Fly) Halves Make A Whole (Fly?)

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: British Sign Language, Deaf Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George is deaf. Owen loves him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my experiences as a partially deaf person. Apologies for any medical inaccuracies (remember - it's fiction for a reason!).
> 
> I own nothing. If you are or know any of the people mentioned above, have a nice day and please click the red x in the corner of your screen.

Owen didn't want to move to Harpenden. He was just fine living in Wigan, thank you very much. But he's had so many lectures on 'the importance of give and take in relationships' by his parents that he's almost accepted it now. Practically the only advantage of switching schools in Year 9 is that he'll give a better first impression than the Year 8s at tryouts for the U-15 rugby team. Owen is hitting his growth spurt and shooting up like a beanstalk, which can only work to his advantage. Because of his dad's dedicated coaching, he knows that he also has a greater skill set than most boys his age. St George's had better watch out - it wouldn't know what had hit it.

Except it didn't quite work out that way. Owen had latched on to a boisterous group of boys in his year for the first few days, but none of them had any interest in rugby. The only directions they were willing to give him to the sports field were 'that way, past the science block and the third left'. As a result, he was twenty-five minutes late to the tryouts. Owen had to play inside centre for the first drill because some diminutive Year 8 wearing a scrum cap had taken the #10 shirt.

Annoyingly, the small boy had obvious talent. Despite being dwarfed by everyone else on the pitch, he was easily one of the best players there. Owen couldn't help smiling at some of the more ridiculously impressive sidesteps and passes that he was making. This kid was insanely good. He could play for England, Owen realised. He could play for the U-18 side and not look out of place - but only if he grew at least a foot.

Then he caught himself. A lot of hard work goes into making the national team in any sport, in any country, at any age. The boy had to have the dedication to put his talent to good use. Unfortunately for Owen, the steely glint in the Year 8's grey eyes showed that he did have the dedication and drive to go all the way. All the way to being England's first choice fly-half - a place with Owen's name on it. Only one thing seemed off about the boy - he wasn't speaking at all. The other players were screaming instructions, but he didn't say a word.

Conveniently for the two fly-halves, they didn't have much competition from the other boys. They were both named in the starting XV for the first game of the season against Roundwood Park School. In the three weeks leading up to the match, the team practised together almost every day. Owen tried to engage the Year 8 in conversation after training each day, but the small boy was always changed and gone before Owen had even taken his boots off.

Finally, on the bus to Roundwood, Owen saw his chance. The boy was sitting alone at the front of the bus, staring out of the window, ignoring the rowdy fourteen-year-olds behind him. Owen sidled over and tapped him on the shoulder.  
"Can I sit here?" He asked, pointing at the empty seat. The other boy shrugged and turned away. His breath formed a small patch of condensation on the glass. Owen took this as an invitation, so he sat down heavily and shoved his kit bag down by his feet.

The boy clearly didn't want to talk, so Owen didn't push the matter. However, ten minutes of absolute silence was enough for him, so he finally caved and tapped the boy's arm again. "What's your name? I'm Owen." The boy's head jerked around and his eyes looked wary. Owen thought he could have done with a haircut - his dark brown hair was curling over his ears and down the back of his neck. The Year 8 tilted his head to the side questioningly. "I'm Owen. What's your name?" He repeated. Maybe it was too loud for the other boy to hear him (and the hair couldn't have helped matters).

The boy nodded in understanding. He quickly opened his sports bag and pulled out a notepad and a pen. On the first blank page, he neatly wrote  _I'm George_. Owen smiled. At last the prodigy had a name. He took the proffered pen and wrote underneath  _Are you looking forward to the game?_  George hesitated for a moment before replying.  _Yes_ , he wrote.  _I'm worried about how big the other team will be, but mostly yes._ Owen could see where he was coming from. George could barely describe himself as 4'11", let alone 6'2" like some of the taller players on their team.  _I'm sure you'll be fine. Can't you just dodge around them?_ George smiled softly.  _I'll stand behind you - then they won't see me and will tackle you instead!_

Owen laughed loudly at that, surprised at how easily conversation was flowing between him and his supposed rival.  _Don't stand too close, or I might tread on you by accident._  He wrote. George took back the pen and replied  _I doubt it. I coud probably fit between the studs on your boots!_ Then the bus pulled to a halt in front of Roundwood Park School. George carefully packed his pen and paper away. Owen somehow understood that the conversation was at an end.

Even without the medium of a notebook, Owen felt like he could read George better than before. They connected on the pitch in stunning style, scoring three tries apiece. Nobody came close to matching them. In the captain's speech on the bus afterwards, he praised the Farrell-Ford partnership incessantly, seemingly without fear of running out of superlatives. Owen watched George stare at the captain as he spoke and felt a newfound affection forming for the boy. It was a surprise, but not a particularly unexpected one.

Their scoring steak lasted for six games. The team had started calling the two boys their 'good luck charms' and they even had to stand up in assembly to be praised by their coach. But George still hadn't spoken to Owen out loud. They were rapidly filling up the notebook, but Owen hadn't worked out why his friend didn't speak to him. He knew it wasn't just him - George had never talked to any of their teammates or coaches either. One day, after practice, he finally summoned the courage to ask George why. The changing rooms were deserted and Owen knew that he wouldn't get another chance like this.

 _I can't talk to them._ George wrote. His fingers were clenched tightly around the pen.  _Why not?_ Owen replied.  _You talk to me all the time._ It wasn't technically talking, but it was still communication.  _It's different with you. You actually take the time to talk to me like this. They got fed up and went home._  The pen paused for a second.  _I'm surprised you've lasted this long, to be honest. Not many people do._ Owen shook his head. In all of his fourteen years, he had never met anyone more worth talking to than George. He took the pen from his friend and started writing.  _I'm sure you could speak to them if you tried hard enough-_ George knocked the pen out of his hands.

"I do try," he whispered. "I try every day, but no one realises." Some of the vowels were rounded too much and the stresses were all wrong, but Owen couldn't see what the issue was. It was perfectly understandable. Geirge opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. A bright, vioent red burst across his face. He waved his hands around - in frustration, Owen assumed - and picked up the pen again.  _Even you didn't understand that, did you? Even you can't understand me._ Then the pen moved across the page again, slower this time.  _Not even my family do._ George grabbed his sports bag, stuffed the pen and paper inside and ran out of the room.

It was dark outside. It matched his mood exactly, Owen reflected grimly. He shuffled across the car park and got into his dad's car. They started driving home, exchanging the usual rugby talk until Owen breached the subject of George's odd behaviour.  
"And you'd never actually talked to him properly before today?" Owen's dad asked. He sounded sceptical.  
"We do talk properly - we write instead of speaking. It's not as weird as it sounds, I swear."  
Mr Farrell hummed uncertainly. "Doesn't it make playing together harder, though? You can't exactly talk about set pieces on the field like that."  
Owen sighed. "Seriously, Dad, I want to know more about him. He doesn't want to tell me anything." His dad looked awkward. Maybe there was something to this 'real men don't have feelings' idea after all.   
"I think you should wait for him to tell you. If he hasn't told you after three months, it must be something important." Owen shrugged. He didn't think he could wait much longer.

Thankfully, he didn't have to. George's older brother, Joe, passed Owen a note the following morning during assembly. It was addressed to  _Owen Farrell_ in George's characteristic neat style. Straight after assembly, Owen went to the changing rooms and locked the door. He knew that he would be late to physics, but some things are more important to teenage boys than the Doppler Effect. He unfolded the letter with shaking hands. He was surprised by his own nervousness. What if George didn't want to talk to him again? What if their promising rugby partnership was to be cut short by a stupid misunderstanding? What if . . . ?

 _Dear Owen,_  
_I'm sorry about yesterday. I overreacted. I shouldn't have been so rude. I won't be in school today because I'm ill, but I should be back by Friday. Anyway, I thought that I should tell you the truth. Not many people want to know, and I tell even fewer._  
_I contracted meningitis when I was seven. I lost 95% of my hearing and I didn't want to talk any more. It's called selective mutism. That's why I only write to you instead of speaking out loud. I don't like talking - it's embarrassing - but writing everything out is so frustrating. I can never keep up with my thoughts. I wear hearing aids but they don't help much. I use sign language with my family, but nobody else knows it so I have to read their lips. I'm used to it, but you're not. It wasn't fair to you._  
_I'm sorry._  
_George :-)_

Owen smiled in relief. The note explained everything so simply, and the little smiley face at the end was just so George. The comment about using sign bothered him, though. His friends couldn't have been very committed if they couldn't have made the effort to learn even a little bit of sign language. It couldn't be that hard, surely . . . 

When Owen first mentioned the possibility of learning sign language to his dad, he was pleasantly surprised at the reaction. He was expecting more "Sign language? Why the eff would you want to learn that? You've got enough on your plate with French as it is!" than the actual reply of "Sign language? Yes, Steve's cousin's uncle's sister's cat's breeder's stepsister's son knows sign. I suppose it could be useful." They arranged for Owen to go round to the man's house one Sunday after practice for an introductory lesson in BSL.

"Hello!" Steve's cousin's uncle's sister's cat's breeder's stepsister's son said as he opened the door. He waved as he was doing it. Owen waved back, albeit a touch awkwardly. If this was all it took, why didn't more people learn? His question was answered a few seconds later. "My name's Sam. Your dad told me that you want to learn sign language?" Owen nodded silently. He was utterly baffled by the speed and dexterity of Sam's hand movements. "That's cool. Do you want to come in?" Owen nodded again and followed Sam inside.

Once they were sat at the kitchen table, Sam started speaking - and signing - again. "Why do you want to learn sign? It's not often that a hearing person asks for lessons." The fly-half shrugged uncomfortably.  
"My friend is deaf. No one outside his family can be bother to learn sign for him, so I thought I should. I care about him a lot."  
Sam smiled. "It's good to see how dedicated you are to your friend. Anyway, back to business. How much do you already know and how much do you want to know? Learning sign always takes a while."  
"Nothing and everything." Owen replied promptly.  
"Okay, then. We'd better get started!"

George had opened up so much to Owen in the six months that they had know each other for that they could now forego the notebook in nine out of ten situations. George was comfortable speaking and signing in unison in private, and whispering quitely in Owen's ear in public. Their bond on and off the pitch had been strengthened so much that even coaches from other schools had started noticing it. Once had even had the audacity to ask their coach if they were 'telepathic or just freaks'. Whichever it was, it was certainly getting results. In the April tournament for local schools, St George's powered through all their games to meet Sir John Lawes School in the final.

Goerge started at #10 and Owen was his inside centre. All was going well up to half time, and the atmosphere in the locker room was jubilant. George and Owen's routine of alternating kicking duties had given their team a twelve-point lead going into the break. The rest of the match appeared to be going the same way. In the seventieth minute, Owen turned the ball over and slipped it to George in a beauty of a no-look back-handed offload. George dodged around four beefish forwards and sailed over the line to seal victory for St George's. However, as two of the largest forwards collided on top of George in a late tackle while the team celebrated, it became clear that something was very wrong.

When the forwards had hauled themselves off him, George didn't move. He lay motionless, sprawled face-first in the mud, ball still clutched to his chest. Most of the boys stood a few metres away from their unconscious fly-half, forming a ring of solidarity around him. The tournament medic arrived less than thirty seconds later, having being dragged from his newspaper by their coach.

The medic carefully patted George on the cheek, trying to wake him up. After a nerve-wracking minute, George's eyes fluttered open. The coach knelt down next to his head and started murmuring reassuringly. Unfortunately, the young player wasn't having - or hearing - any of it. He batted the man's hand away and tried to sit up, hands moving quickly all the time. His eyes were still darting anxiously from face to face. Owen recognised the signs his friend was making:  _'What's happening? Why am I here? Can somebody help me? My head hurts.'_ He knew that he had to intervene.

He pushed past the coach's restraining hand, crouched next to George's shoulder and tapped his chest lightly. The other boy's eyes focused on him, a little of the confusion on his face fading away.  
_'Hey, George,'_ Owen signed. He could feel the quizzical looks boring into his back, but he could deal with the team later. George was his priority right now.  _'It's okay. You were hit really hard. You need to stay still.'_

 _'Okay,'_ George signed back.  _'Am I going off now?'_  
_'Yes. You hit your head badly.'_  
_'If you say so.'_ George rolled his eyes and Owen grinned. Learning sign was definitely worth the effort for private moments like this. He stood up and told the adults what George had said.  
"He'll be fine. He says his head hurts, but he knows that he has to go off. Oh, and he doesn't remember the tackle." The medic and coach nodded gratefully.  
"Can you tell him that he has to be stretchered off now? Safety protocol, unfortunately." The medic said.  
"Sure." Owen bent down again and signed carefully,  _'They are carrying you off.'_

George snickered.  _'Don't you mean 'will carry you off'? I'm not exactly moving right now.'  
'I understand more than I say!' _ Owen replied defensively. George merely smiled and patted his hand affectionately. Then the stretcher arrived, George was taken to be propped up on the sideline and play resumed.

Owen took the conversion from George's penalty with a neat kick, taking the score to 26-7. As the clock ticked down, St George's made slow progress up the field, doggedly taking tackles and racking up the phases. Their full-back ripped the ball out of a ruck and passed it to Owen. He leapt into motion, sprinting the twenty metres to the line with ease. When he stood up again, he signed to George,  _'That was for you.'_  
George blushed and replied,  _'Thank you. It was a very pretty try.'_ Owen flicked the ball between the posts and it was official. St George's had won the district tournament.

All the celebrations merged into one in Owen's mind. After being presented with the award for joint most valuable player of the tournament to share with George, the two boys were sent back to the bus half an hour early to avoid anything that could aggravate George's concussion. The bus was empty apart from them and their assistant coach (who couldn't really eavesdrop on their silent conversation).

 _'When did you start learning BSL?'_ George asked, slowly spelling out the last word.  _'I had no idea. I could have helped you.'_  
_'I started about four months ago. My dad's friend is teaching me.'_ Owen looked down nervously.  _'I wanted to surprise you. You never complain about constantly having to lipread or write everything. I wanted to make things better - no, easier for you._ ' George pulled his friend into a tight hug.  
_'It has made life easier. I would have panicked for much longer if you hadn't been there. Hearing aids aren't much help from under a scrum cap, especially with concussion.'_ He paused.  _'Why did you learn, though? I know we're friends, but that can't be enough of a reason, surely?_

Owen suddenly realised that his hands were shaking. He shook his head sharply to clear his thoughts, like a dog shaking off water.  _'I know we're good friends, but I want us to be -'_ He stopped, frustrated. For a moment, he wished that there was no language barrier between them. Not being able to express yourself properly is one of the worst feelings in the world. Tentatively, Owen pointed at himself, folded his arms over his chest and pointed to George.

_'I love you.'_

George's grey eyes widened.  _'Really? This isn't a concussion dream?'_ Owen nodded firmly.  _'Wow. Really, really?'_ The other player nodded fervently. George relaxed and shyly took Owen's hand. It felt natural, like they'd been doing it for years. They smiled dazedly at each other, trying to work out if this was an impossible dream or an improbable reality. Owen leant forward and said clearly into George's ear,  
"Sleep now. You still have concussion, remember." So George did. Owen was relieved, but even more so by George's sleepy refusal to let go of his hand until they arrived back at school.

The next day was beautiful - crisp and clear, like spring was trying to hold back summer. Owen stayed after school to put in some more kicking practice. Yes, they'd won the local competition, but that didn't make him Jonny Wilkinson. After half an hour of the rhythmic thud of a boot hitting the ball, birds chirping in the trees and wind whistling over the playing field, Owen jumped when he felt George tap him on the back. He'd been so absorbed in his practice that he hadn't realised that George was approaching until he was barely a metre away.  
_'Now you know how I feel,'_ George grinned.  _'It's worse in the dark, though. I never know if someone is going to jump out and get me.'  
_ Owen quickly signed back,  _'I wouldn't let that happen.'_

He stepped forward and wrapped George up in a tight hug. The younger boy stiffened and Owen almost stepped back before George relaxed into his chest. "I love you so much. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not now, not ever." He murmured, face pressed gently into George's hair. Even at this young age, the height difference was already striking.

George pulled back, a quizzical expression on his face.  _'What did you say? I could feel the vibrations.'_  
'Nothing important.' Owen signed in reply.  _'Just wondering if you're meant to be here, with your concussion.'_  
George winced.  _'My mum wouldn't let me come to school today, but Dad said I could come and see you while he was picking up Joe. I knew you'd be here.'_  
Owen inwardly thanked George's dad. In his opinion, any day spent without George was a day wasted.  _'How long have you got? I don't want to keep you too long.'_ George looked up from under his eyelashes and blinked endearingly at Owen. It was probably unintentional, Owen knew, but it was making him go weak at the knees.  
_'He said he needs to talk to one of Joe's teachers, so maybe half an hour?'_ George replied, wind ruffling his hair.

Owen blamed George entirely for what happened next. If he hadn't looked so damned alluring, Owen could have resisted. But as it was, he didn't stand a chance. He stepped in again, so their bodies were almost-but-not-quite touching and took George's face in his hands. He said clearly, so that the other boy could read his lips, "Stop me if you don't want to, okay?" George nodded nervously. Then Owen dipped his head and pressed his lips to George's. It wasn't magnificent - there were no choirs of angels (which George wouldn't have been able to hear, ironically) - but it was warm and comforting. It felt like coming inside after a snowball fight and drinking hot chocolate. It felt like have a tiny kitten asleep on your lap. It felt safe.

George let out a small whimper and pulled Owen in even closer. Owen knew Pythagoras had decreed that this angle would be even worse for his neck, but he couldn't care less. He released George's face in favour of his waist. George immediately curled his fingers into Owen's curling hair. They stayed like this for several more minutes until George pulled back and said shyly, "That was great. Thank you."  
Owen smiled sheepishly. "You're welcome, I guess? I enjoyed it too." There was an awkward pause. "Can I kiss you again?" George merely nodded and joined their mouths together again.

This time round was mindblowing. George had clearly gained confidence rapidly and seemed to have no qualms about sliding his tongue into Owen's mouth. The older fly-half responded eagerly. They continued like this for some time, surfacing for air and then diving straight back in again. 

Unfortunately, the impromptu kissing marathon was brought to an end when George's phone started buzzing like an over-caffeinated bee. He pulled it out of his pocket and swore. "My dad's waiting for me - I've got to go. I'm really sorry - I'll see you tomorrow!" George leaned in and pecked Owen quickly on the cheek and jogged back towards the main school. Owen gently touched his cheek as the younger boy receded into the distance. He knew he probably looked like Ron after Fleur Delacour had kissed his cheek, but who was there to judge him? His crush (God, he hated the word) had just kissed him - he deserved to look shell-shocked for a while.

But that thought led his mind along an altogether less pleasant path. Was George still his crush, or something more? He resolved to ask George in the morning, when he could think straight again.

Fortunately, however, George beat him to it. At morning break, the younger boy appeared at the door of Owen's form room and hesitantly signed,  _'Can I talk to you?'  
'Of course,' _ he replied. He left his friends talking and followed George to the changing rooms. It felt like his stomach was filled with angry butterflies dancing the rumba. Maybe that's why everyone says that love hurts, Owen realised.

Owen sat down on one of the benches, George opposite him. Their knees were almost touching. George cleared his throat before speaking. His words had the determination and intensity of those learned for a purpose. "I like you, Owen. I really, really, really like you. I don't know how seriously you're taking this, but I want it to be real so much. I love you, so, erm . . . Will you be my boyfriend?" Owen signed back an emphatic  _'Yes!'_ before taking George into his arms once more.

George kissed Owen slowly, with a sense of purpose that their previous kiss had had none of. They floated together in a haze of contentment and kisses for five minutes before Owen could prise himself away.  
_'Can I tell my parents about this?'_ He asked cautiously.  _'My family already know that I'm - that I like boys.'_  
George looked thoughtful.  _'I need to tell my parents that I'm gay first - I don't know what they'll do. But you should be able to by next week.'_  
Owen smiled happily.  _'Thank you so much, George. My mum will be so excited.'_  
  
George screwed up his face.  _'What about your dad?'_  
The older boy shrugged nonchalantly.  _'He's always training or playing rugby. He's more worried about my little sisters getting beaten up than anything to do with me. He knows I can handle myself.'_  
'Okay, then. I'll probably tell Mum tonight and my dad tomorrow when he gets back from Leeds.' He looked tense for a moment.  _'I hope it goes well.'  
_ Owen hugged him reassuringly.  _'I'm sure it will. There's not much that they can do about it anyway.'_  

Then the school bell rang, shattering their bubble of security and serenity.  
_'Practice after school?'_ Owen asked.  
_'Of course!'_ George grinned.  _'I'll see you later.'_  
_'I love you.'_ Owen signed as he walked towards English.  
_'I love you too,'_ His boyfriend replied.


	2. Part Two

**HEARING AIDS BANNED BY IRFU  
The International Rugby Football Union announced today that players are no longer allowed to wear hearing aids on the pitch. This change is intended to ensure safety for all those involved in rugby union, and will affect several high-profile players such as Matt Gilbert (Wasps) and George Ford (Bath). The new rule will be implemented from the beginning of the 2018-9 Aviva Premiership in two weeks time.**

George closed his laptop and reached for his phone with shaking hands. He'd heard rumours of the new rule, but he had hoped desperately that nothing would come of it.  _Hey, Owen_ , he typed.  _Have you heard about the new rules yet?_ The fly-half didn't have to wait long before the phone vibrated in reply.  _It sucks. I told your dad after the meeting finished. He's not too happy about it and I don't think the other lads will be either._ George smiled weakly. He could still rely on his family, if nothing else.  _Are you coming home now?_ _Leo wants his walk._ He quickly took a photo of their spaniel sitting by the door and sent it to Owen. His reply came quickly:  _Tell Leo that it's almost time for walkies with Daddy!_ George smirked. If only people knew about the sappy man behind the scary rugby-player mask . . .

Well, they did - to a certain extent. George and Owen had never tried to conceal their relationship from their teams or the public, which meant that they weren't viewed as trailblazers as much as the token gay couple of English rugby. One of the bonuses of not having to come out 'officially' was the lack of intimidating interviews filled with rainbows and questions that George wouldn't want his mother to know the answer to. 

Lost in thought, he only realised that Owen was at the door when Leo started bouncing around his feet and scratching at his legs. Fortunately for George's jeans, Owen opened the door quickly. The dog bounded over and licked Owen enthusiastically. Once his boyfriend had extracted himself from the overexcited spaniel, George hugged him tightly.   
"How was the meeting?" He asked softly.  
Owen reluctantly pulled back and signed,  _'It was good. You know how we were talking about me switching to 12 permanently to sign for you?'_ George nodded tersely, eyes fixed on Owen's hands.  _'Well, because of that new rule, your dad and the others thought that it would be a really good idea. So, I am now technically a centre with half the kicking duties - if you can bear to let me take them, that is!'  
_ George felt his eyes suddenly fill with water. _'Thank you. I know it will be a big change.'  
_ Owen shrugged.  _'It's the right choice. I don't want a stupid rule to stop you from playing.'_

They kissed, pent-up emotion sparking between them. George only broke away when he felt Leo tugging at his trousers again. "Okay, boy - walkies!" The dog raced to the door and sat down, tongue hanging out of his mouth like elastic. George pulled his coat on and clipped Leo to the lead. Owen opened the door again. They walked into the warm summer evening, heading for the fields outside Bath.

If anyone had seen them, they would have thought that the two men were very odd. Owen was signing as he walked. George was speaking, holding Leo's lead with one hand and trying to sign with the other. It was a strange arrangement, but they'd had a lot of practice making it work. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the World Cup the next year in Japan. George was doggedly stating all the reasons for him not to be included in the squad. Owen signed back in exasperation.  _'George, you'll be twenty-six when it starts. That's not old - don't you remember Nick Easter in 2015? Besides, you're the best fly-half in England today. We couldn't have won two Premierships without you.'  
_ "Or you!" George countered.

_'And we don't have a pool of death to wade through this time, either. I mean - New Zealand, France, Canada and Namibia? If we don't get through, I'll . . . '_ He cast around for a wild enough option.  _'I'll eat Leo!'_ George pretended to vomit, but started laughing helplessly at Owen's imitations of himself chasing and eating their dog. They walked on, enjoying the view as the light grudgingly gave way to the dark of the night.

The run-up to the World Cup was eerily smooth. England won the Six Nations without a loss and Bath breezed to an easy Premiership title against Leicester. Owen and George were both fit to play and had been selected for the England fifty-man World Cup squad in May. Training was brutal, but no different to previous training camps. It was made easier by the coach's insistence that the whole squad learn rudimentary sign language in case Owen was injured. The lessons took up almost a quarter of their allotted gym time, which was much appreciated. The high-altitude training camp in Denver went off without a hitch, despite the dismal weather. The warm-up games were a success and George could practically feel the team clicking into shape. He almost told Owen that it was like 2003, but he didn't want to jinx anything.

The pool stage was mercifully pain-free, unlike their first time around. Canada and Namibia were brushed off - literally and metaphorically - without a second thought, but France were a tougher nut to crack. Jules Plisson scored two tries in the first half, as did Dusatoir. But England fought back. Owen dodged around five French defenders for England's first try in the fortieth minute and converted it tidily. Henry Slade and Jonathan Joseph skipped over in quick succession to take the scoreboard to 29-19 to France after sixty minutes. George added another six points from penalties to leave England a mere four points behind with ten minutes to play. The forwards started to pile on the pressure, resulting in tries for both Vunipola brothers. George kicked both conversions between the posts to seal the win - 29-39 to England.

That night, they lay in their hotel room watching endless bewildering animé, George curled up on Owen's lap.  _'Do you think we can beat New Zealand, Owen?'_ George signed. Because he was lying down, Owen had to tilt his head to read the sideways gestures. George shifted so he could see Owen's face to watch his reply.  
"I think so." He said clearly. "We'll get through to the quarterfinals whatever happens, but the lads would love to beat them."  
George nodded.  _'Yes, they would. Anyway, we all need to be fit to play Wales in the quarters afterwards. We can't take too many risks.'_ Owen nodded absentmindedly as he watched the cavorting characters on the TV screen. 

George noticed his baffled expression and hid a smile. He knew that Owen would be on his laptop the moment their tournament ended, researching the characters and plotlines. He'd probably want the boxset as a Christmas present too. Owen couldn't stand being beaten by anything, even Japanese cartoons.

Owen shook his head in frustration and turned the television off. The room was suddenly half-lit by the city's lights leaking through the curtains. George looked up at his boyfriend's face and shivered. He looked like he was about to take the game-winning kick - eyes intensely scrutinising their target, but filled with a heat and longing that had no place on a rugby pitch. Owen put his mouth next to George's ear and hissed, "I know what I'd rather be doing right now." George knew the answer - Owen had used that line on him so many times - but he never got tired of Owen's possessive tone and flushed cheeks.  _'I'd rather be doing you.'_ Owen signed, then immediately moved his hands to cup George's face. He kissed his boyfriend tenderly, still leaving George breathless after fifteen years. Then he moved his hands lower and George couldn't think of anywhere he would rather be.

The final pool game against New Zealand was as expected. England were down 17-13 at half time and there was nothing much that they could do to save it. Even George making tackles on monsters like Savea and Milner-Skudder didn't have much effect. All he got for his troubles was a split lip and two spectacular black eyes.

That evening, Owen took George to Yoyogi Park, a secluded park in the suburbs of Tokyo. They messed around for an hour, taking goofy selfies to send to Gabriel, who was dog-sitting for them. George's particular favourite was the one where Owen had his arms curled around his waist and was nibbling gently on his ear. Half of George's face was out of the picture and his boyfriend's eyes were closed, but that didn't diminish its sweetness in any way. George immediately uploaded it to Instagram with the caption  _Japan is a beautiful country, but nothing is more beautiful than my boyfriend._ Within seconds, there were dozens of notifications on his phone, mainly along the lines of  _You guys are so cute together_ and _#reallifeOTP!!!_ George turned off his phone and resolved to ask Owen about the last one later. 

The sun slid behind Tokyo's skyline, drawing the light from the sky and ushering in the night. The two rugby players walked hand-in-hand through the city to get to their hotel. George revelled in the anonymity that Japan brought. He and Owen could have started making out at the top of the Tokyo Skytree and nobody would have given them a second glance, let alone taken pictures and sold them to a newspaper.

As they walked to their room, Owen's phone started pinging relentlessly. He took it out of his pocket and scrolled through the notifications. Once they had reached their room, he handed his phone to George and closed the door behind them. Owen's Twitter was open and displaying a tweet from a fourteen-year-old deaf girl. George clicked on the accompanying photo to read the message, sitting down on the bed as he did so. Owen sat next to him, arm wrapped around his shoulders. The letter read:  
_Dear George,  
__You are my inspiration. I am sure that many people have told you this before, but you really are. I am profoundly deaf and attend a mainstream school, like you did. At first, I was too shy to speak and I found it hard to make my voice hard. But then my PE teacher gave a presentation on inspiring sportspeople. You were the first person she spoke about. I was - and am - inspired by your courage in being true to yourself and not letting your deafness get in the way of your dreams. Because of you, I joined my school rugby team and made lots of friends. Some of them have even learned sign language for me - like Owen did for you. You have changed my life so much. Thank you for being you, George._  
From Katie  
PS Good luck in the World Cup!

George lifted his eyes from the screen and felt an irresistible urge to cry. He buried his face in Owen's shoulder until he was ready to speak. "Did you read it, Owen?" He asked, voice shaky.   
_'Yes, I did. I'm so proud of you, Georgie. Everyone says that rugby is just another sport, but this proves that it isn't.'_ Owen signed, cheeks wet. _'We need to win for her.'_

The team was allowed to rest in the days leading up to their quarterfinal against Wales. George spent most of his time with Owen, Ben and Henry, playing in the hotel's pool or visiting Tokyo's many landmarks. However, they were even more grateful for the rest preceding the semifinal against the Wallabies. The team came off the pitch with a place in the World Cup final, but with dragging feet and slumped shoulders. The exhaustion had contributed to several avoidable injuries like Joe Launchbury's broken wrist and Jack Nowell's torn hamstring. Owen had had to go off just after half time, leaving George at the mercy of the silence and the Australians.

George's whole body was shaking as he took the kick to restart the match. He hadn't felt so powerless, so defenceless, in years. He could hear nothing but the blood pumping through his veins. Afterwards, they told him that the crowd was screaming their heads off. It could have been a funeral, for all he could hear. After twelve agonising minutes, Owen came back to the field. George had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life. They hugged quickly, foreheads resting together in a brief moment of peace before the tumult of the game swallowed them again.

With Owen by his side, George felt more secure and prepared for the onslaught of the Wallabies. He knew that Owen would always be there to take a pass or a tackle, no matter what. His breathing steadied, his muscles relaxed and his play improved. What could have been a narrow victory became a thundering rout because of the influence of one man. Owen was rightly awarded the Man of the Match award by a smiling Japanese lady for his 'efforts in the match and ability to reassure the team'. Everybody knew that 'team' in relation to Owen really meant George.

Once the team had shuffled back to their hotel rooms, George opened his laptop and brought up YouTube. The coaches had told them that a new video would be put up after the game, and George knew that he would be in it. He clicked on the first link that came up. It was an extended interview with members of the team about George's deafness, intercut with footage of training sessions and his best moments. They'd taken most of the footage months ago, before Bath had won the Premiership, and George was surprised by the clips of him and Owen during training. Owen's face had always been an open book to him, but this was on another level entirely. Owen's face was lit with happiness, his hands were moving constantly as he talked to George and he couldn't stop smiling. The pure joy on his face reminded George of the little box he had in his bag and the promise he'd made to himself four years ago. At the time it had seemed like an impossible dream, but now the dream could become a reality.

New Zealand were obvious choice to win the Rugby World Cup 2019 - for the third time in a row - but George tried not to think about that. The team psychologist had told to banish negative thoughts and concentrate on the good things. So, before the final game of the tournament began, George spent twenty minutes curled up with Owen in the corner of the locker room, trying to breathe evenly. His head was on Owen's chest and his boyfriend was holding him protectively. George could feel the steady beat of Owen's heart: a reassuring moment of calm before the storm. Then the captain was rounding up the players and they were walking down the tunnel for the anthems.

George left his hearing aids in as they sang 'God Save the Queen'. He felt the crowd's exuberance shaking the ground beneath his feet. He felt Owen's quivering body pressed against his own. He felt tears sliding down his own face. Here they were, representing their country in the final of rugby's biggest competition, together.

After the singing, George ran to the bench and swapped his hearing aids for the red scrum cap. He jogged back to the middle of the pitch, stomach churning.  _'Are you ready?'_ He signed to Owen, short, sharp signs fluttering in the air.   
 _'Babe, I was born ready.'_ Owen signed back. His serious game face cracked into a smile.  _'Come on, George - let's smash them!'_ George flashed a quick thumbs-up back and the referee handed him the ball for kickoff. The crowd counted down, the whistle blew (not that George could hear it) and the game began.

True to Owen's prediction, they did smash them. Their offence was so strong that New Zealand had to dig deep just to get out of their own 22. The pain of the last World Cup gave England wings. They ran in four tries, coupled with three conversions, two penalties and a drop goal to go into the break 35-16 up. George was thrumming with excitement. He knew he should catch his breath, but he couldn't wait to get back out there and finish the job.

However, it went steeply downhill from there. The All Blacks clawed back the points until the scoreboard read 38-33 in England's favour. There were ten minutes left to play. George was having flashbacks to the Wales game at the last World Cup. The team battled on, fighting for every inch. With three minutes to go, the Kiwis scored a textbook try under the posts and converted. It was 40-38 to New Zealand. George could feel the nausea rising. Was their happy ending about to be ripped away?

Fortunately, Owen had other ideas. He raced down the wing, weaving through defenders like they were poisonous cacti. In an astonishing break from fifty metres out, Owen scored a last-gasp try to save England's World Cup dreams. Almost before Owen had stood up, George was clinging to him like a limpet, kissing him fiercely. The 'aaw' echoing around the stadium was heartwarming (especially since the crowd was mostly middle-aged men). There were forty-five seconds left on the clock. George reluctantly pulled away from his boyfriend to take the kick. He could see the slumped postures of the Kiwis and knew that it was  _his boyfriend, his Owen_ that had made them feel like that. His heart felt like it would burst with pride.

After fiddling with his laces for thirty seconds, George decided that it was time to put the Kiwis out of their misery. He took a step back and ran forward, foot connecting right on the sweet sport. The ball soared towards the posts and hit the crossbar. Everyone held their breath. Which way would it bounce?

The ball bounced over the posts and towards the crowd, ending the game with two points for England. George watched the referee blow his whistle and sank to his knees. His whole body was shaking. After all the years of hard work and pain, he - England - had finally done it. They had won the Rugby World Cup. It was four years behind schedule, but better late than never, right?

George pushed himself off the floor and looked around for Owen. He spotted him on the edge of the maul of England players and sprinted towards him. It was like all the cheesy romcom endings. The two players hugged tightly, trembling with excitement. After Owen had been dragged away to rejoin the mass celebrations, George jogged to the bench and grabbed his hearing aids. He put them in carefully, adjusting to the wave of noise from the crowd. He picked up the tiny box, put it in his pocket and went back on to the field.

George took Owen's hand and tugged him out of the crowd of exuberant Englishmen. They walked together to the centre of the pitch. George step was determined; Owen's was faltering.  _'What are you doing, George?'_ Owen signed, letting go of his boyfriend's hand. George rested his hands on Owen's shoulders, before staying loudly,  
"Don't worry. It's okay."  
An uncertain smile spread over Owen's face.  _'If you say so.'_

George wiped his hands on his shorts nervously. They were alone on the pitch now and the crowd seemed to realise what was about to happen. Owen was still standing there patiently, his whole body radiating trust and happiness. George let out a breath, centering himself like he did before taking a big kick.  
"Owen," he started softly. He could feel the cameras trained on them and they only made him more nervous. "Owen, I love you. I loved you the day we met at St. George's, I loved you more when you learnt to sign and I love you most now. You've made the last fifteen years of my life the best they could have possibly been." He broke off, throat tight.

_'I love you so much. I'm lucky enough to have you and I'm selfish enough to want to keep you.'_ George signed. His hands were shaking but he knew that Owen could understand him. He slid down on one knee. It hurt like hell after the last eighty minutes of play, but he didn't care. "Owen Andrew Farrell, will you marry me?" George whispered, opening the box to show Owen the ring inside.

The crowd had gone mad. George could hear the cheering and feel the applause rumbling through the ground. Owen signed a simple  _'Yes.'_ and pulled George to his feet. They kissed eagerly as the rest of the team surrounded them, whooping and slapping them on the back. Somehow, they ended up standing on the try line, waiting for the podium to be assembled. George kept looking down at his and Owen's clasped hands and wanting to pinch himself. The Webb Ellis Cup was his, Owen was his - what more could he want?

Once New Zealand had been awarded their medals, the England team trooped on to the stage. The light sparking off their gold medals matched George's feelings. He was buzzing. When the captain raised the trophy for England, George knew he had never been happier. It was passed around slowly, each man savouring the history he was holding in his hands. When it was Owen and George's turn, somebody - George strongly suspected Ben - pushed them to the front of the podium. Within seconds there was a chant of "KISS! KISS!" rolling around the stadium. George shrugged and turned to his fiancé.

They hoisted the cup above their heads and pressed their lips together. The resulting photograph made headlines around the world, was put on several mantelpieces back home in England and was the first photo they showed their five-year-old daughter when she asked about 'my daddies' job'. It was a breakthrough for the sport of rugby union - as were they.


End file.
